TMNT: Prey
by princessebee
Summary: Sometimes if you won't make a decision, it gets made for you. In the guise of Nightwatcher, Raphael has abandoned stealth. What are the consequences? Warnings for language, violence and explicit drug and sexual references. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_This will most likely be my last Raphael/Amber centric story for awhile. I'd like to focus on the other Turtles, see if I can do them justice. I'd also like to do more fics on the core-family, especially as that would give me the opportunity to explore Raphael's lighter side. The one that we see when he interacts with his brothers, a side I've sorely neglected. And it's a wonderful side and one much beloved by me, though you wouldn't know it from what I've done thus far!_

_So this story is to get some semblance of resolution between these two. Hopefully it will satisfy anyone who's enjoyed the series thus far. _

_My many thanks to the fabulous __**Deirdre**__ for her beta-read on this fic. Hers were some of the first stories I read upon rejoining the TMNT fandom this year, and I love them and it honours me that she's willing to put the time in!'_

**---**

**PREY**

**ONE**

It had been two weeks since she'd last seen Raphael. She'd left him on the rooftop when he'd returned from freeing the Thai girls and hadn't seen him since.

Not that she cared.

Amber woke slowly from a dream in which she and Raphael had been at the library, going through the Encyclopaedia of the Human Body. Her childhood cat, Mindy, had been there, dancing on two hind legs in the background as fireworks burst outside the window. Raphael had pointed very seriously to an illustration of a hip joint and said that he'd always wanted to buy one of those. She rubbed her bleary eyes and laughed a little at the dream. Her dreams were frequently disjointed and nonsensical, and she never bothered trying to interpret them.

She woke in a small, dark room, lit only by a square in one wall revealing a patch of slate blue – the sky outside the window was slowly darkening. Gingerly, she rolled herself onto her stomach and carefully pushed herself up, her head protesting the movement. It was quiet in the building and cool in the bare room, and her limbs were heavy with weariness – she wanted nothing so much as to roll back over and sleep some more. But it was evening, and time to work.

J-J had told Amber about the squat. J-J was actually two people – Joey and Jim – but they were always together so she just called them J-J. They'd rigged the building with electricity and then gone about telling a few trusted associates about the space. The last winter had been hard on Amber, so she figured she might as well hole up there for a while. She had chosen a small studio in the crumbling tenement; one whose walls were covered from ceiling to floor in riotous, colourful graffiti. She'd chosen a room near the top floor, figuring it'd be easier for Raphael to visit. But that was before she got pissed off at him.

Amber sat on the lumpy mattress pushed up against one wall and yawned, stretching her arms above her head before pushing her matted hair out of her face. A few long strands were caught in her mouth and her cheek was sticky with drool. There was a wet patch on the pillow as well, and she swiped at it before turning to the small stool nearby and the equipment that rested there.

"Fucking freak, anyway," she muttered to herself as she readied the shot. "Why I would want to touch that thing?"

Their falling out had come at a good time, really. Couldn't have come at a better time. Things had just been getting way too complicated – she'd been struggling with the sorts of feelings she hadn't been bothered by for years, and it had been making her feel ill.

So long as Raphael was in the suit, was Nightwatcher, things were easy. She could allow her thoughts to wander down more intimate pathways.

But out of it was another story. It meant confronting the very realness of what he was – most emphatically _not_ human. Not even a mammal. As different from her as could be.

It had made her feel queasy at first, remembering mornings when she'd passed out at Eva's before she knew what he was, imagining his fingertips dancing over her skin, pulling her tight against his chest. And all that time she'd never known…

…there was beauty to Raphael, of course. There was beauty to all of them – his "father" and his other brothers – simply in the sheer impossibility of what they were and how perfect it was. She'd always associated the word 'mutant' with deformity, with freakish growths, torturous and mangled, experiments gone wrong.

But they were – well, perfect. She wasn't sure she entirely believed his story of this "ooze" they'd apparently all been exposed to as infants. It just didn't ring true. She wondered occasionally if in actuality they were some sort of alien species who'd become stranded here. That seemed more probable to her – made more sense in light of their advanced intellects and ability to talk, not to mention their physical prowess and dexterity. Real earth turtles would surely mutate with extra claws growing out of their heads or another shell sprouting or something like that. Nothing quite so… miraculous.

But it wasn't the sort of beauty one "got into".

Amber had winched the belt as tight as she could around her upper arm, but her veins refused to pop up. She tapped the scar tissue and skin around her inner elbow with delicate fingertips, sighing with frustration. "Come on, come on," she hissed. Still nothing. Disgusted, she loosened the belt and bent one leg at the knee, focusing on the spaces between her toes instead. It took a couple of minutes, but she was successful.

The perfectly sharp point of the needle entered and a moment later chemical bliss flooded her body. She sighed, this time with contentment.

She hadn't wanted to be near him for a while, not when she remembered how she had once thought about them fucking. And she'd acknowledged her hypocrisy and seen his disappointment at her initial reaction, so she'd lied and pretended she was okay with it all.

But she wasn't.

And the problem was, she still wanted him. Just because he was some sort of freak turtle didn't make him any less the man who had saved her life twice, who fought with passion to protect the wretched people of her neighbourhood, and who believed so absolutely in right and wrong. It was difficult, not to be into someone like that.

The Nightwatcher suit meant she could pretend that underneath it, he was human. But out of it – touching him, having him touch her – it was twisted.

And even more perversely, there was something in that very fact that appealed to her. That was sort of exciting.

Half an hour after the shot, she was feeling focused and calm. Already she'd begun collecting books – bought, found, stolen and borrowed – and they were beginning to stack up against the walls. She was reading a trashy crime thriller at the moment, something light and stupid that required little to no real concentration. With a cup of scalding hot instant coffee sweetened with a lot of sugar, she settled down on the mattress to read until it was time to go to work.

The squat was a pretty good idea. Apart from books, she had only a mattress, a CD player she'd exchanged for a blowjob from a fencer, a stool and a cardboard box to keep some clothes in. She didn't bother with food except for coffee and instant noodles, so all she needed was a kettle. And now that she had her own bathroom, she didn't need to take any more showers at Thistleways.

She continued to keep the rest of her stuff in her downtown locker, but it also gave her a place to shoot up other than Eva's – some place entirely private.

And, she'd originally thought, it would make spending time with Raphael that much easier. No risk of exposure for him here. Well, not so much, anyway.

Amber sighed again, irritated at the thought of him. It would seem now that it was all out of her hands. For several months he had not left it so long between checking up on her – and certainly they had never parted on such a sour note. So, she supposed he'd removed herself from her life. Which was just as well, because all this drama and tension and desire and confusion was inconvenient and distracting and uncomfortable. It was altogether best that it was this way.

Her book hit the opposite wall, knocking a piece of plaster from the centre of an elaborately coloured rose. It slid to the floor, and she didn't care at all. It was stupid to keep thinking about him, because nothing was going to change, and there was nothing she could – or wanted to – do about it.

**-------**

Raphael watched Amber leave the building she was squatting in, her ever present cigarette glowing in the early evening dimness. Although he had not approached her for a couple of weeks, he couldn't bring himself to stop watching her – yet. The note things had been left on the last time he'd seen her had perturbed him. So he stayed away. And soon, soon he would stop watching, as well. It made it too hard to keep track of her and keep his distance at the same time.

He felt foolish, and that made him mad.

It had been stupid and naive of him to think – well, what _had_ he thought, anyway? He'd let his damn guard down, though, that was for sure, and he was cursing himself for it now.

Amber crossed over 86 and East, her eyes blank and focused on the cracked pavement. She was so thin, so shapeless that she was barely recognisable as female. Too tiny to be mistaken for a boy, but she was not childlike, either. She reminded him more of some of the alien creatures he and his brothers had seen, otherworldly and bizarre, her gaunt face and too-big eyes sunken deep into her cheeks. Her long red hair was the only thing that really identified her gender; she seemed to be beyond sex and beyond femininity.

She was grotesque and yet…

Well, it's not like he could talk, could he?

He tensed at those thoughts, sucking a breath in through gritted teeth, reminded again of his stupidity. Worthy of Mikey, for Chrissakes. He'd always known. Of all of them, he'd been the first to have the best grip on the reality of it, of the inevitability. Sentenced to watching and wanting and being denied. Even if there were – friends – the obstacles were too great to overcome. Like the whole issue of _species_.

It made him feel very bitter.

Of course, the irony in this situation was that this wasn't the reason behind his falling out with Amber. No, that had to do with conflicting opinions – freaking political beliefs, of all things. But on the other hand, it had provided him with an easy out.

He watched her round the corner, and then turned and started off across the rooftops. He wouldn't be Nightwatcher just yet tonight. First, he wanted to cross train. Recently, the training in the lair had slackened off severely. The three brothers would dutifully carry out their two hour morning session with Splinter and usually put in a couple more in the afternoon, but as much as Donatello tried to feign the sort of dedication and discipline Leonardo had maintained effortlessly, it was patently obvious he'd much rather be tinkering with his toys. Lately he had started begging off from the task, citing his need to work more shifts. Raphael suspected it was really to rid himself of the training duties, but then, he didn't keep the books. Donnie did.

Michelangelo, on the other hand, rarely sat still. He was more than happy to be active, so long as it wasn't _training_. It was routine and the idea of 'work' that bothered Mikey rather than strenuous physical activity, which he wholeheartedly loved. Position it as 'fun' and Mikey would be all over it. He was a natural athlete, and it never bothered him to go skateboarding or leaping about rooftops. And with Donatello's increasingly passive attitude towards maintaining additional skills and fitness, Mikey did the bare minimum training and spent the rest of the time how he chose – in-between getting beat up at kid's birthday parties.

Being the Nightwatcher was like training for Raphael – incredibly risky and uncontrolled training, but training nonetheless. And he continued to put in the extra work in the dojo, weightlifting and perfecting his weapon and hand-to-hand combat skills. Of all of them, he was keeping on top of things physically, pushing himself and improving. See, now if _he__'__d_ been in charge while Leo was away, no way Don and Mike would be slacking off. But seeing as how it was all on Don's shoulders, Raphael couldn't be bothered with trying to get them motivated. He'd just do his own damn thing. And no way was he going to humiliate himself in some grovelling crawl of a job like Don and Mikey.

An easy out. After all, why keep on sitting around, wondering and waiting to see what would happen, when probably nothing would. He had no experience in this. He'd become aware of the attraction he'd started to feel for her – but even though she'd kissed him – and almost had again just a couple of weeks ago – he wasn't entirely certain if it was reciprocated. How _could_ it be?

And so he'd just wind up making a fool of himself if he kept on hanging around. No way.

Maybe it was just habit that drew him to her – that she was the only female he'd spent so much time with, on such an intimate level. Maybe staying away from her would take care of that. She sure wasn't like any of his fantasies, and no mistake. Not that his first choice would even necessarily be human – given the option – but then, he didn't _have_ the option, and they were kinda what he was used to, and they certainly had plenty of redeeming features. They looked good and smelt nice and were usually really soft. Plus they had nice voices. And pretty smiles.

Amber looked awful and reeked of booze and nicotine. She was bony underneath her papery skin, and her voice rasped from years of smoking.

But she did have a great smile. When she smiled, he almost got a glimpse of how she might look if she gained twenty pounds and got off the gear. Still no Scarlet Johanssen, but… well, maybe a bit cute. And her hair was amazing. Hair was weird altogether, but it did catch the light in nice ways.

So maybe he was just into Amber because she was the only chance he might ever have. _Was_.

_And all these thoughts are fucking pointless,_ he thought furiously to himself, pushing his moving body a little harder. In the end, even Amber wasn't a chance. There was no chance, not for him.

He'd almost made a true idiot out of himself. Better altogether that things ended this way.

His calloused feet pounded the cement, the wind whipped at his face, and he steadily controlled his breath as his heart rate accelerated. He knew he was making better time than even a couple of nights previous. Training was paying off.

**--------**

The night got off to a brisk start, but then slowed down. It was a Thursday, which could sometimes affect business. People went out for the first part of the night, but then went home, having decent jobs to get to in the morning, and wanting to rev themselves up for the weekend. It didn't bother Amber – she had enough to get what she needed, and a small stash back in the squat, anyway.

She danced for the runners, young boys of twelve and thirteen, and they smiled and clapped her on, not afraid to drop their cool in the face of her exhibition.

"_I don'__t need no makeup, I got __–__ real scars, I got __–__ hair on my chest - boom boom boom boom - I look good without a shirt!__"_ she sang, kicking up her heels and starting off down the pavement. She'd go to Eva's and pick some stuff up now. Why not. Maybe she would even make it an early night, go home and finish her book.

She cracked her knuckles and tossed her hair back, elbowing her way past a bickering couple, and ignored a wild-eyed, grey-haired woman who asked her where the free accommodation was. Her shouts of "you do know, you can't tell me you pay a hundred dollars a week in rent and have enough to live on, so shut up, you just don't want to tell me where you live!" followed Amber down the street until she turned the corner.

She took a short cut, crossing over a few alleyways and trotting down residential streets that were darker than their commercial counterparts, and quieter as well. She nodded to a stoop crowded with smoking kids and did not look up when the screech of tyres broke the night on the road near her. Someone drinking too much, usual story.

She barely had time to register the words "Get her!" before several sets of hands were laid roughly upon her, and she reacted after a shocked delay just long enough for their grips to harden. She kicked her body up, flailing her legs out and screaming. The kids nearby disappeared into their house, slamming the door shut behind them. She continued to struggle, but couldn't break the hold the three men had on her as they dragged her bodily to the waiting van, threw her in the back of it and leapt in afterwards. The tyres screeched again as the driver peeled off, barely giving them time to shut the doors.

It all took less than ten seconds. When they were gone the only evidence that Amber had ever walked down the street was the cigarette that she'd dropped when they grabbed her, steadily burning away on the pavement.

**-------**

As Nightwatcher, Raphael preferred to keep a reasonably low profile. Apart from picking Amber up on her beat and doing a couple of regular circuits, he didn't interact much with anyone. But there were a few restaurants he'd helped out that told him he had a lifelong free food supply and one 24-hour convenience store that was happy for him to take necessities as they became necessary. At first, he'd balked at the thought – these people worked hard for their income and it felt too much like taking advantage – but after Donatello had sniped at him one too many times for not contributing to the family's needs, a hefty combination of guilt and aggravation had led him to take them up on it on a semi-regular basis.

The only thing was that he had no way of explaining how he got it – he couldn't tell them about the Nightwatcher gig and he sure wasn't making any money – so he was stocking the pantries in stealth or bringing home food that Casey had provided. He only had to worry then about the inevitable thank yous that would eventually be directed Casey's way, but he'd figure that out when it came to it.

It was nearing two a.m and Raphael was thinking it was time to call it a night. Things had seemed quiet on the streets that evening, which he knew he should be pleased about, but which, conversely, frustrated him. Well, if he got home this early, Mikey might still be up and they could watch a movie together or something…

He pulled up outside the convenience store, its windows blazing with yellow neon. Inside, he could see the two Naidu brothers arguing with each other cheerfully about some such thing or another, and he grinned as he fixed the kickstand in place and strode towards the entrance.

They both hailed him as he walked in, past the stands crammed with crackers, instant noodles, tinned goods and toiletries. Like everyone else, at first they'd been terrified of him, even knowing that he was the one who'd stopped the hold up on their store. It was the helmet. Well, it was meant to be imposing, but it often wound up scaring the wrong people, too. Even as he grinned back at their effusive greeting, he knew they couldn't see it. He looked blank and expressionless to them, as he did to any criminal he nabbed. But over time and exchanged pleasantries, they'd grown to realise it was only the scum that incurred his wrath – and that really he was 'a true gentlemen, sir, yes and a very nice chap as well!' as Rahji said once, throwing in an extra few chocolate bars, despite his protestations.

"Nightwatcher, you honour us once more by coming into our store!" Rahji said now, and he held up a huge gloved hand to wave it off.

"Don't start that, Raj, you're the one doing me a favour!"

And the two brothers started up a chorus of denials. He chuckled and moved along the aisles, picking up the things he'd noticed they needed and a few extras as well. Some more toothpaste – he suspected Mikey ate it, it disappeared so fast – a couple of boxes of cereal (all sugar and wheat; Leonardo would completely disapprove. They were really for Mikey, since Raphael's main meals were all protein based and Donnie – Donnie ate whatever was easiest and within reach).

"Oh, Nightwatcher!" Rahji's voice sung out to him as he turned around one aisle and down another. "There was a message left here for you earlier this evening."

He froze. What? A message – for him? _Here?_ But – who – who the hell - ?

"Come again?"

Rahji heard the new note in Raphael's voice, and the wide smile disappeared from his face. "A message – here it is –" he held out a folded piece of paper. " –some young fellow brought it in and asked me to hold it until you next came in. Lucky you come in tonight, huh?" He tried to smile again, but he was clearly perturbed by Raphael's tense body language, his stillness at the end of the aisle.

Raphael stayed still a moment longer, struck with the tingling feeling something was very wrong. Then he moved, quickly, towards the two brothers and snatched the folded paper from Rahji's hands, who flinched.

He fumbled with the paper, a grubby white piece that was strangely bulky, and unfolded it hastily to find a message there in block letters:

**NIGHTWATCHER. WE HAVE YOUR WHORE. IF YOU'D LIKE HER BACK ALIVE COME TO 56 AT 188-200 WEST 83RD AVENUE. WE'RE WAITING.**

And wrapped up in the message was the thing that had given it bulk; a long, straight lock of red hair.


	2. Chapter 2

_Please note: this chapter contains sexual violence and a graphic description of drug use._

**-----**

**TWO**

Amber gasped as she was hurtled across the room, crashing against a table that stood in one corner. The momentum knocked her back against the wall, and she collapsed to the ground, gagging. The table corner had connected hard with her gut. She continued to cough and retch as her captors strode into the room after her, slamming the door shut on its hinges.

A second later a hand was in her hair, and she was wrenched upwards and once again thrown back. The impact of her body against the floorboards sent a cloud of dust rising up in the air, and she rubbed her eyes and cowered back against the wall. A bare lightbulb suspended from a cord in the ceiling was switched on, sending its moon of light lurching around the room as it swayed back and forth.

There was a snatch of laughter, a few quiet words exchanged, and then approaching footsteps, flat and hard on the creaking floorboards.

"So this is her?"

Amber blinked in the harsh light, looking up at the man standing over her. He towered above her, hands on his hips, a grim smile splitting his face in two.

"Yeah, this is Nightwatcher's bitch. We seen her getting' on his bike few times a week most'a time."

The big man squatted down on his heels, staring into Amber's face. His nose had clearly been broken more than once in his life, and never very well reset. A thick, twisted mass of scar tissue coiled itself down one cheek, cut diagonally across his lips and traveled further over his jawline and neck. His head was shaved, rough and choppy, a blonde fuzz of stubble over its crown. His eyes were small and vicious and they looked at her blankly, even as his mouth smiled.

"She sure is one ugly fucking bitch," he said as though she wasn't there. "Ya think Nightwatcher woulda chosen a hotter piece'a meat. Bet there's plenty of these whores willin' to give it to him."

"Maybe he can't get it up!" one of thugs in the background crowed, and his pals snickered. "Maybe he's into kinky shit only this bitch will do."

The big guy's expression didn't change.

"Didja drop off the messages?"

"Yeah. One in each joint he's been seen goin' into."

"We'll give him three nights." The big guy stood up straight again, turning away from her. "Then dump her."

She stayed silent. She already knew everything that was going to unfold in the coming hours.

This was war.

They would beat her, possibly rape her and then kill her.

They would do it to get to Raphael, who they would also try to kill, but not before telling him what they'd done to her. She was pretty sure they wouldn't succeed in killing him, but she knew she stood no chance against them.

"After that, go to all the joints he likes to visit, and dust 'em. We'll get him."

The big guy clicked his fingers and motioned towards the door. He led them toward it, and they fell into file behind him, chatting and cracking jokes as though they had not just turned their backs on a girl they'd taken by force; a girl they were planning to kill. The door slammed shut behind them, and she heard a key being turned into a lock and a couple of bolts sliding into place. Their footsteps retreated down the hall, laughter echoing.

The second they were gone she began fumbling with her knapsack. She'd cheat them, then. Fuck 'em. If there was just one thing she could ever do for Raphael, this was probably it. She wouldn't let them have that victory.

In a second, she'd opened the plastic Hello Kitty! lunchbox and found the foil packet. With shaking hands, she knelt forward on the stone floor, carefully unfolding the tightly wrapped package. She could see at once that it wasn't enough, not to finish her off. She swore, feeling savage and robbed, and punched the floorboards so hard her hand went numb.

But it would stupefy her. Make her less fun.

She got a tube of lubricant out of her bag and squeezed a huge handful out, rubbing it vigorously into her genitals and around her anus. It would help, provided they didn't wait too long.

Then she prepared the shot hastily, winching her arm tight. Miraculously, a vein appeared almost instantaneously, and she readied to inject.

Then a thought occurred to her, halting her hand.

This was war.

There was another fit in her lunchbox. A used one, but it didn't matter. She would get her own in, as much as she could.

**-------**

Raphael panted harshly on a rooftop, trying to get his thoughts together.

Obviously, it was a trap. They were going to try and ambush him. He'd probably pissed them off somewhere along the way – fucked up an operation, beaten them witless – and now they were determined to kill him and get their own back. Vengeance.

His blood boiled; inside the suit he was sweltering with the fury and viciousness of his anger, of his urge to descend upon them and rip them to shreds.

How, _how _could he have been so fucking stupid? Letting him and Amber be seen so openly like that. Allowing –

He clutched his head in his hands and groaned, and then slammed his fists hard against the concrete. He had to _think_. It was a trap – he couldn't just go in unprepared.

He tried to think rationally. Chances were, she was already dead. If their intention was to kill him – and he'd have bet money that it was – then they were counting on it not mattering if she was alive or not. Or maybe they figured they could catch him and then make him watch while they – he'd heard stories like that before. His stomach tipped upside down at the thought.

For the twentieth time, he pulled out his mobile and flipped open the lid, scrolling through for Donatello's number. Then he flicked it shut again, hissed in conflict, and threw it across the roof, where it skidded to a halt with a metallic clink.

He needed his brothers, but getting them involved meant coming clean about the Nightwatcher thing. That would start a whole new world of trouble.

He forced himself to slow down and think. He drew in deep breaths and made himself relax his clenched fists, waiting for the pounding in his head to slow down, clearing his mind.

The Nightwatcher was not a ninja. He did nothing by stealth. The Nightwatcher's style was brute force; savage, simple and direct.

They had laid a trap for the Nightwatcher. Not for Raphael.

He stood abruptly and began pulling the suit off. Unbuckled the slim pack that disguised his shell. Unfastened the elbow and knee pads. Pulled off the boots and gloves. Piece by piece, they clattered or thunked to the ground at his feet. Finally, the suit was unzipped and shrugged off his shoulders. Methodically, he gathered the suit together, stowed it carefully back into the duffel bag and hid it in the rooftop supply room, to await collection when he was finished. The berserker fury had settled down into a simmering rage that gave vicious intent to his every movement. It hovered just below the surface, steadily burning and gathering heat, ready and keen to erupt at the right moment.

If they had killed Amber, he would kill them. All of them.

This was war.

**-------**

She was dreaming.

She was dreaming of the first time she'd shot up by herself. They'd made a pact, the four of them. A pact to only ever do it together. It was the experience that led them out of their childhood friendship into an adolescent bond.

But she didn't want to do it that way anymore. She wanted to be alone. They were a distraction now, with Billy demanding her attention – he got so needy when high. He didn't understand that she just wanted to drift away. That she wanted to leave life and enter into another plane – one with nothing that was familiar. Including him. His arm around her as she floated was becoming like a weight, gagging her and hauling her back down.

She'd gone and bought the stuff that afternoon from their dealer. It had cost her entire weekend's pay, and she knew she would need to figure out another way of making money. Afterwards, she'd locked herself in her room and laid out everything on the bed.

Insulin needle. Spoon. Cotton. Lighter. Belt. Water.

Then she'd drawn in a big breath and carefully unwrapped the little paper packet, setting it carefully on her pink and red bedspread. It was her first time alone, and she wasn't sure how much to do. Greg always did it up for them. She was beginning to find his measurements inadequate, though.

Carefully, she tipped a little of the off-white granules into the spoon, and then uncapped the syringe, sticking it into the glass of water and drawing up a few CCs. That was squirted into the spoon. Taking a breath to keep her hand steady, she lifted the spoon, picked up the lighter and held it beneath the basin. The water boiled quickly, the heroin dissolving into it. She set both the lighter and spoon down again carefully on her bedside table, then tore an edge off the piece of cotton. Dropping it into the spoon, she watched it absorb the mixture, before picking up the syringe again and sticking the tip into the cotton ball. She drew back on the barrel and felt a rush of triumph when she saw the liquid sucked into the syringe. This was easy.

She placed the syringe back down, picked up the belt and winched it around her arm. Billy always did this for her. She wasn't sure she'd got it tight enough and struggled with it for a few seconds, trying to draw it tighter. Then she pumped her fist a couple of times and watched with pleasure as her veins rose.

Now.

She was so excited that she trembled violently as she picked the syringe up, holding it against her soft flesh, the crook of her elbow.

Now.

The needle was so sharp, it was no effort at all to insert it. Hand still shaking, she carefully drew back again, just a little. She wanted to cheer when she saw the swirl of blood fill the bottom of the barrel. Success, on the first try. This was so easy.

She depressed the plunger.

A few seconds later, it hit her in fiery, golden waves, ricocheting through her body like an orgasm, except deeper, more intense, more complete through every inch of her. She swayed a little and dropped the syringe, and then bolted from the bed to grab her wastepaper basket, throwing up into it.

Through the haze of pleasure and giddiness, it occurred to her she might've done too much. She tried to walk to the door, to unlock it, to go into the bathroom and get a glass of water, but even just a few steps made her sway and rock, her stomach lurching. So she fell back onto her bed and let the world race away.

And then the door opened and her head, heavy as a bowling ball, lolled to see who it was. It was Raphael, not in the suit, just there. He smiled at her in that gentle, relaxed way he sometimes did, when he was feeling really happy or really calm, when he wasn't brooding or furious about something.

"I didn't think I would see you again," she said, her tongue thick and filling her mouth so that her words were muffled.

He came and laid down beside her on the bed. "They couldn't stop me."

She nodded. "I think they're going to kill me."

He moved closer to her, the thick, pebbled flesh of his thigh brushing against hers. "That's why I had to come. Gotta say goodbye."

Blinking, she looked at him. His strange, inhuman face with the unbelievably expressive eyes, constantly alive with a variety of emotion. The too big mouth; the strange blunt snout that had once been a beak. His broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms, entirely devoid of fat so that the skin clung to each muscle, hard as rock. The chest plates – the _plastron_ – hard like bone. She ran her fingertips down them, smoothed them over the membrane covering his side, back around to his hard shell, rough and smooth at once on her hand. He'd never let her touch him so much before. It really must be goodbye.

"I just realised it doesn't matter," she told him. He seemed to understand her.

"No, it doesn't," he agreed. She didn't think that was something he would really say.

"I'm sorry we wasted so much time. Should've realised before."

He shrugged, and one of his hands lifted, stroking her cheek. Two fingers, big and thick, traced a line down to her jaw.

"Can't be helped. You're very pretty like this."

Of course. This wasn't her as he knew her. This was thirteen year old her. Still with puppy fat and budding breasts and a full face.

"You should've known me now," she said and shifted closer to him. He dropped his hand, put it around her back and drew her up against him. It wasn't like being up against Billy, with his smooth, firm chest and soft belly and wiry arms. Raphael was hard; hard all the way down his front, like bone. His arm was big and strong. "Things were different now."

"I know you," he said seriously, and then he rolled on top of her.

She shut her eyes and felt her body begin to jerk, felt the back of her head scrape back and forth against something hard, felt a force vibrating through her body again and again, and heard the muffled sounds of men's voices rising up around her like fog.

She opened her eyes and saw on top of her, not Raphael, but some nameless stranger, someone she had never seen before. She stared at him curiously, trying to remember when and where she'd picked him up and if she'd got the cash before they started.

When he saw her eyes open, he increased his pace, his force. She could feel how savage he was being, but it didn't hurt. Her head still felt too heavy to lift, and she was very sleepy.

Gradually, she became aware of the other men around her. They were insulting her, calling her ugly. She wondered why they could never think of something else to say. Unable to help herself, she yawned.

The man on top of her froze with fury, his eyes bulging and his face contorted. Then he backhanded her. When her head snapped back, bright sparks illuminating the cloud in her mind, she remembered everything.

_This_ is the best they could think of? She wanted to say it to them, but it was too much effort to get the words out. Rape? Why was it always the same with men? Why were they always so fucking mundane and predictable?

Abruptly, the guy on top of her stopped and sat up in something he made look like disgust, but seemed unnerved and edgy beneath it.

"This fucking bitch doesn't even care. Too fucking used to it. Is that what your problem is, slut?" He shouted down at her, his desperate aggression becoming increasingly frail. "You used to this?" Some of them jeered, but she just lay there and blinked at the ceiling. The guy spat at her. "Waste of fucking time. "

A couple of the men hissed and kicked at her, swearing and calling her names, but she wasn't really paying attention. She wondered how many had had their go. They wouldn't have used condoms. Stupid fuckers. She hoped they had got her bleeding, and that their dicks had been drenched in it.

The guy who'd been on top of her was buckling his pants, still looking at her in disgust. "Let's get the fuck outta here. Creepy fucking bitch. José, you stay."

A thought occurred to her as they turned to go, walking over her like she was a sack of potatoes, and abruptly, she laughed.

They rounded as one, their eyes bright with fury and fear.

"What the fuck are you laughing at, cunt?" one of them said. He was handsome, with curly dark hair and a bandana around his head. She wondered if his mother knew where he was.

She swallowed around her thick tongue and blinked up at them. "That'll be a hundred bucks, thanks."

They hovered for a moment, too frozen with shock to react, then they descended upon her.

**-------**

On the tenement across from 188-200 West 83rd, Raphael adjusted the night binoculars and assessed the situation.

188-200 was a long disused tenement, crumbling and abandoned. It was possibly used as a squat now and then, but it was too decrepit for any but the most desperate. The ceilings sagged in many of the rooms that he scanned through the shattered windows, and there was exposed wiring and fallen beams everywhere. He counted the floors up to the fifth, slowly panning across each window.

When he got to fifty-six, he tensed. Four men, all of them packing some serious heat. Automatics. Uzis and glocks. His grip tightened on the binoculars. Uzis were trouble. The apartments on either side – fifty-five and fifty-seven – had two men in each. He scanned the rest of the floor, but there was no one else in any of the rooms. They were probably in the corridors, waiting. He panned up to the floor above, sixty-six. Two men in there. Below to forty-six, three men. All with automatics.

He sat back on his haunches and tried to figure it out.

Thirteen in total. In numbers, they weren't more than he could handle. The problem was the guns. They were too powerful and too fast. If he entered through the window, all his effort would go into trying to dodge the rapid-fire bullets, probably without success. With four guns like that all aimed at him, he wouldn't be able to avoid them. Not to mention the mugs around them, who would start firing or rush to join in when they heard the racket start.

Right now they were relaxed; a card game was going on in one room, and a small portable television set was on in another. The men were drinking and chatting, and their holds on the guns were loose. Didn't mean anything. It would be the work of seconds to get them into position, and in those numbers, he wouldn't have time to disarm them all. One or two, maybe three, at most. He was going to have to do this really carefully.

He scanned the roof, but there was no one waiting up there. Once more, he wished his brothers were here to back him up, but even if he could definitively change his mind, he'd broken his phone back on the rooftop. He was in it alone. If he died, then Amber was fucked. If he died, his family might never know what happened to him. He couldn't hold back a bitter chuckle as he imagined the sort of lecture he'd get from Leonardo in the afterlife, if there was any such thing. About abandoning the family without another word, endangering a girl's life, getting her killed, getting himself killed, leaving them all to worry and wonder and mourn him til Doomsday.

No way he wanted that lecture, so he guessed failure wasn't an option.

He began scanning the building again. He couldn't see Amber in any of the rooms the men occupied, but she might be hidden in a room that didn't face the windows. Now that he thought of it, there might be men in other rooms, as well. Obviously they'd all man the windowed rooms in case he decided to enter that way, but they might have reinforcements where he couldn't see them.

He became aware of a fine sheen of sweat on his brow. Damn it all, this was going to be fucking tough.

He began to scan the other floors, searching for any sign of Amber. If he could find her – he could just get her directly. They were counting on the Nightwatcher to come blazing in, baying for blood. They didn't think he could forgo all that, the big confrontation, but he could.

If he had to.

He wanted them hurt. He wanted to get these guys, to punish them for taking her, for hurting her and for making him feel – this. This unbearable fear and worry. The need to ignore the voice that kept screaming she was already dead. She couldn't be dead. Not like this. Not taken from him like this. He wouldn't be able to bear it. Not when – when they had been so close – and he was sure now, that they had been. Not when he –

And once again he was struck by the unfairness of it all. Not when he cared about her and they had been so close. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and bowed his head, struggling against the surge of emotion that nearly overwhelmed him. He'd worked so hard to suppress it, to ignore the need, even if he couldn't squash the desire. Ever since the night, five years ago, when he'd been playing tag with Mikey.

They'd left the drainpipes in an unspoken conspiracy, wanting to climb to the rooftops – to test their strength and dexterity, and for the extra room. They were young and fit and desperate to stretch their limbs and test themselves, glowing with thirteen-year old arrogance, sick of rope climbing arm over arm. Mikey was it and Raphael was pushing it. Even then, Mikey was damn fast, but Raphael didn't have as much muscle bulk and was keeping a reasonable distance between then, leaping up fire escapes, flipping his body over rails and pushing himself into jumps. Already his quads and biceps were burning, but he was nowhere near exhausted, and the exhilaration of feeling the strength in his arms comfortably hauling his body weight upwards, one arm at a time, was adding speed to his movements.

He'd had to bite back on the urge to shout, remembering they were no longer in the sewers, that there were humans mere feet away on either side. He glanced across at the windows on the opposite building, suddenly wondering if he could be seen in the darkness.

Abruptly, he'd stopped as though he'd hit a wall. He forgot about Mikey, forgot about reaching the rooftop, forgot about the people all around him. He froze still and stared, jaw dropping open suddenly.

Opposite him, framed by a window, a woman was dancing. Her room was dark but for one small light, and she swayed back and forth lazily, her head lolling from side to side. She wasn't wearing much clothing – just a bra and panties, mismatched, the elastic on the panties old and stretched. She wasn't real slim, but she was beautiful. Her breasts were small and her hips were really wide, her skin was dark and her hair was piled up on top of her head. There was a bottle of liquor on the dresser next to the stereo, which played some soft, gently rocking music. She grabbed the bottle by the neck and took a swig, spun around in a circle and kept on swaying, her eyes shut.

Mikey pounced on him out of the darkness, about to squeal TAG, but he swatted him over the beak and pushed him off.

"What is it, Raphie?" his confused brother asked, following his gaze. "Oh. Wow."

They'd sat there in silence, watching the woman dance, her movements slow and carelessly sensual. And then her hands traveled up to her hair, pulling out the pins holding it up. It fell down around her shoulders like a curtain; masses and masses of tightly curled, dark hair, glittering a little in the dim light. They both drew in a deep breath. She spun one more time, her hair fanning out around her, and Mikey said 'wow' again.

They watched her lazy dancing until she picked up the bottle again and left the room. They left without a word exchanged, and when they made it home, he'd gone into the bathroom. He sat there for awhile alone, in front of the mirror and knew.

Even when Amber had first entered his life, it didn't occur to him that there was a chance. He'd talked to her out of curiosity, because she'd been so calm and cool in the face of her death, as though she'd been expecting it. And then because it was good to have someone else to talk to, someone completely different. Someone who was just – just his. And Amber wasn't risky. She had no friends, she had no ties, and she didn't bother prying. Maybe she was even safe. She wasn't attractive and didn't try to be.

He'd been just barely seventeen when they'd met. Seventeen and struggling with everything life was throwing at him with the full knowledge of their isolation. Puberty, loneliness, frustration, always having to stay hidden and be careful. Rarely spending time in the sun. Confinement.

And desire. He couldn't suppress it, but he could stop giving it material to feed off of. It made watching television difficult, so he worked out instead. On the streets he trained himself only to see the victims.

It didn't really work, but it helped.

The closer he got to Amber, the harder it became to ignore. And although he knew he should walk away, he just didn't want to. It was nuts, and it was stupid, but he'd dug his heels in.

And now this had happened.

Raphael opened his eyes again, coming out of his memories and back to the rooftop, gritting his teeth as he raised his head and looked across the street to the tenement. He felt the gravel beneath his fingertips, the sweat cooling on his neck and forehead. He could smell the garbage wafting up from the street below. He could feel his muscles suddenly flood with adrenaline, tensing as he stood and readied himself.

They would not take her.


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

When she woke again, the room was dark. She was in pain now, real pain.

Their fury would've killed her if the Big Guy hadn't come in to see what they were doing. He'd thrown them off her, halting their punches and kicks, and bawled them out.

"We gotta wait for the Nightwatcher!" he'd screamed. They'd cowered, instantly subdued by his rage. "I want her alive til then, unless he's not here in three days. But he'll come. Just be fuckin' patient."

They didn't dare look at him, staring instead at the ceiling and floor, their fists clenched and jaws tense.

"When he gets here, we'll kneecap him, break his arms, and then make him watch while we have a party with her. Then we'll kill her." Suddenly, he'd backfisted the guy nearest him so that he spun around and hit the wall. "Got it?"

Silent and sullen, they'd nodded, one or two shooting her a vicious look. _Wait_, those looks said. _Just wait_.

"Now get the fuck back to your posts. José, you stay."

At these words, they all jumped and moved quickly out the door. The one they called José pulled a battered chair up to the table and sat down, ignoring her as she coughed up a mouthful of blood and passed out.

José was no longer there. She was alone in the room, lying in the dust and her blood. Slowly, gingerly, she made an attempt to sit up. Her head screamed in protest as she did, and there was a sharp, shooting pain in one arm. She sat still for a moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning, and then threw up a mouthful of bile and blood.

The room she was in was small and filthy, its walls peeling plaster and paint, and its floors a mess of exposed boards, cracked and creaking. Beams were exposed in the ceiling, and apart from the table and a couple of chairs, there was no furniture. Nor any windows. Along one wall she could make out large, pale spaces against the grime, indicating there'd once been things fixed up against it. Spying a gas outlet, she guessed this had been a kitchen before it was gutted.

Wincing, she began to move her limbs, checking for broken bones. They'd concentrated their assault on her torso and legs, but nothing felt broken. They hadn't had enough time – mere seconds – before the Big Guy had come in.

But she was already turning purple in various places, and there was a lump on her head that was tender to the touch. It was slightly difficult to breathe, as well, and she thought she might have a couple of cracked ribs. She was in a lot of pain, but on the whole, it was nothing that was going to be unbearable to deal with until they came back for her.

In the end, when it was clear she didn't have enough to kill herself, she'd split the smack she'd had left in half, leaving her with two reasonably big doses. Now she did up the other shot and sat back, her arse aching where she'd been kicked. Before injecting, she lifted up her skirt and gave herself a quick examination. The lube combined with her lack of resistance and relaxed muscles meant there was barely any damage. She didn't think many of them had gone before they'd gotten bored.

She pulled her bottle of gin from her bag and took a few hard gulps. Then she remembered the dream she'd had before, of Raphael holding her on her bed back in her parents' home in Jersey. She supposed she was going to die without saying goodbye to him, which really wasn't fair. She hoped he wasn't going to be too upset, but knowing him, he'd probably blame himself. She wished… if anything, she wished she could tell him that she didn't blame him. And that she wished she'd – There was a warm wetness on her cheeks then, and she wiped her face hastily. That was life. She picked up the syringe and wrapped the belt around her wrist, pumping her hand. When the vein sprung up, she plunged it in quickly and a few seconds later the pain retreated.

She eased herself back down, curling into a ball. Then she slid a hand down her calf and into her boot, feeling around until she located the cylinder, warmed by her skin. It was intact. She smiled to herself. Hopefully José would be back soon.

**-------**

He got into the building through the rooftop. It was dark inside, almost pitch black, and he sat down in the darkness and waited twenty minutes until his eyes had adjusted to it almost completely. Leo would be proud.

Then he moved silently down the hallway, past apartments whose doors were hanging off their hinges or not there at all.

Ninja training had taught him how to 'lift' his weight so that he was at once silent and light on the floorboards, but nonetheless, he moved slowly and with great care. A creaking floorboard was all he needed to fuck everything up.

At the end of the hallway was the stairwell and an elevator shaft, sans door. Taking a peek inside, he saw the old elevator itself several floors down. The whole building was only eight floors and he was on the top. He figured he'd go down to the fourth first, take care of things there, move back up to the sixth, and then finish business on the fifth. This was going to require a lot of care, and using the shaft would be stealthier and easier than trying an unreliable staircase.

He tested the cable, and when satisfied it would take his weight, swung onto it and began to swiftly and silently slide his way down.

He counted the floors as he went, noting with satisfaction that the doors on floor six hung open at a crazy angle and those on floor five were gone altogether. But he cursed inwardly when he reached the fourth floor. The elevator doors there were only a foot apart – no where near wide enough to climb through.

He had two options: He could climb back up, use the stairs and risk alerting floor five to his presence before he was ready, or he could try and get the doors opened wide enough to slip through without alerting anyone.

He opted for the latter.

Balancing himself on the edge of the fourth floor doorway, he placed his hands between the gap and steadied himself, drawing in a deep breath, before slowly and steadily exerting force. At first, the doors refused to budge, but then, with a whisper of a groan, they began to slide back. He paused a moment before the sound could get any louder, aware of his heart beginning to pound harder as he waited in the darkness to see if they'd heard. Nothing. The doors slid further when he tried again, still catching in their runners, until with a sudden screech, they unexpectedly loosened and slid wide.

He leapt out through them and darted for the stairway, ducking beneath it just as one thug came out of a doorway down the hall, gun cocked.

From where he hid, Raphael could hear a muffled voice asking a question, and the thug in the hallway whispered back: "Thought I heard somethin'. Just checkin' it out."

He came creeping down the hall, attempting silence, but the floorboards were merciless beneath his inexperienced feet, creaking and groaning with every third step. He reached the elevator shaft and peered into it, the nose of his gun going first.

Raphael sprang.

The butt of his _sai_ made contact with the back of the man's head, and he went down without a whimper. Raphael caught him and carried him to the stairwell, where he was swiftly bound and gagged. Then he moved forward down the hall, his own feet whisper soft, feeling out the loose parts of the wood and carefully sidestepping them.

When he reached the door for forty-six, he drew up against the wall and very carefully took a glance around the edge of the doorframe. Three guys on this floor, he remembered. One was already down. The other two had to go down in silence, as well, or it was all over.

There was no one in the first room of the apartment, which had probably been the living room at one stage. He edged his way in and moved silently around the walls, moving closer to the open doorway that led through into the rest of the apartment.

And then he froze as a voice lifted from beyond it: "I'm gonna go check on what that dickhead Marco is doin'. He keeps gettin' spooked by the rats."

In the darkness, waiting, Raphael grinned.

The second thug came through the doorway, oblivious to his presence, and once again his _sai_ cracked dully against a man's skull. He laid him down carefully on the floor, and then moved through into the other room, where a man sat near the window, looking at a porn magazine, his gun by his feet.

Raphael raced forward, and the guy looked up in astonishment, barely managing a "what the fu –" before Raphael laid hands on him. Then he was down, as well.

Raphael hissed out a long, slow breath. His heart rate was even and calm, and his breathing was measured, controlling his exertion. But sweat slicked his forehead, hot and wet, and he knew better than to think it was going to keep on being so easy.

He went to the window of forty-six, looking out and upwards. He could catch the faint gleam of lights coming from apartments fifty-five to fifty-seven above him. He could move between the windows easily to get up to sixty-six. He pushed the _shuko_ onto his hands, and then slipped out of the window, finding easy purchase on the wall stretching up above him. As he moved, steadily and with ease, a faint memory from childhood came back to him. Strength training. Splinter saying they were not ready for chin-ups yet, because they had to master push-ups first. Raphael had already mastered push-ups, and he was starting to do them one-handed. Leonardo was angry at him, and he didn't understand why, except that Leonardo was doing twenty extra push-ups every day even when Splinter said he didn't have to. Leo was overworking his young muscles, even though he couldn't actually do twenty, but usually wobbled around sixteen and fell flat on his plastron. And Splinter was telling Raphael that he had to wait for everyone to be ready to do chin-ups before he could.

But Raphael wanted to work on them now, when he was ready. It wasn't fair. When Master Splinter was meditating one afternoon, and Donatello and Michelangelo were watching _Biker Mice from Mars,_ and Leonardo was reading (again), Raphael had gone into the tunnel just outside their lair, where several exposed pipes stretched down its length, in different sizes and thicknesses. He'd crouched, sprung upwards to grab hold of the lowermost pipe, grunting a little as his hands chafed against the rust, and tested his grip. The pipe was dry, and the rust made the surface rough, so he would not slip. He hung there for a few moments, managing his breathing and building himself up. Finally, he'd taken a great breath in through his nostrils and, in a great exhalation through his mouth, poured all of his power into his arms and back, hauling himself up.

For just a second, his chin hovered just below the top of the pipe, and he tipped his head backwards to raise it above, eyes bulging with the effort to keep sight of his progress, arms quivering with the strain, stars and spots dancing in his gaze. He felt a hot, giddy glory. He'd done it.

He'd dropped back down, feeling his biceps and triceps trembling from the exertion. He looked about him, unable to help grinning, only for his triumph to dull when he remembered he was alone, and no one there to see him.

He was unable to do another one, after that. Just the one.

But the next day he did three, and the day after that, seven. And in another week, when Splinter decided push-ups had progressed enough for them all to begin chin-ups, he could do twenty. And Leonardo was angry with him again.

By now he was at apartment sixty-six, the solid musculature of his adult form comfortable and unstrained from the climb. Nowadays, he could do an easy fifty chin-ups one-handed. Scaling a short wall barely registered as an effort.

He paused in the darkness outside the window of sixty-six, listening carefully. Unseen within, the two men there were talking.

"So, my wife is up me again to find a 'real job,' as she calls it. You gotta get a real job, Mickey, she says, can't raise a kid like this. I keep tellin' her, no one willin' to hire me with my record. Can't get no jobs, cept washing dishes or lugging trash. Menial shit, man. How I supposed to raise a kid and keep a family on that kind of salary?"

"I hear ya, man."

"She up me all the time, ya know. Gotta get a real job, Mickey. I say, fuck woman, you go out and get a fuckin' real job if it's so important to ya,"

"You got a death wish, man,"

"I say that, then she start screamin' at me to get out, yellin' that I'm a bum and a crummy bastard and to fuck off, and she'll raise the kid by herself, and I won't get to see him."

"Aw, man."

"So then I'm all like naw, come on, Tiff, was just kiddin', but you know it's hard, baby. And it is hard, man. So fuckin' hard."

There was silence for a long, heavy moment. The night was warm and humid and in the distance a motorbike engine roared.

"So anyway, she let me stay. I tell her I got a job mixin' drinks. That's where she thinks I am tonight."

_It__'__s funny_, Raphael thought, _they sound just like the guys down at the bar on Thirty-Fourth after their shifts__'__r done._

In the darkness beyond the window, they did not see him when he glanced around the window frame. They sat at an old table laden with beer bottles, playing a card game and using cigarettes as chips. One smoked, the other chewed gum. They were both young, one black and handsome, the other white and ugly. He could make out no distinguishing tattoos, no signifying colours that indicated they were in the same gang, just like the others below. They were wholly unremarkable, their faces those of hundreds of young men that roamed the streets of New York.

But there was something familiar about them, nonetheless.

He watched them in silence for a moment.

That was it. They were just like so many he'd seen before. So many he'd encountered on the streets, who he'd brought down and halted in the acts of crimes both petty and horrendous. Just two more faces.

"We should just dust the bitch now," one of them grumbled, the one who was not Mickey, and Raphael tensed, gritting his teeth. "Too damn risky keepin' her alive like that. Oughta just cap her, be done with it." He threw his cards down, folding the hand, and Raphael put one foot up on the window ledge and pushed off, propelling himself into the room.

He landed on the mug, his fist cracking hard against jawbone. Mickey had leapt back as the table toppled, beer bottles clattering to the floorboards, a 'Hey!' in his mouth before Raphael's leg kicked out, connecting with his gut, one hand still clutching Not-Mickey's collar. Not-Mickey's fist came arcing through the air and landed a glancing blow off Raphael's temple, but he shook off the sting and knocked the mug out with a brutal uppercut.

His gun had been knocked aside in the tumult, and Mickey was scrambling for it when Raphael landed on his chest, seething. Mickey was rendered speechless with fright at the spectacle of this snarling, vicious thing, which had exploded out of the night in a whirlwind of green and bone armour and veined muscles. The weight of it on his chest was steadily crushing him even as a row of large, square white teeth bared uncomfortably close to his ear.

"Looks like wifey'll be raisin' the kid alone after all, bub," Raphael hissed.

There came a sharp, hard tapping from below, and Raphael froze, sweat cooling along his neck and arms as he paused. A muffled voice drifted through the floorboards:

"Oy! What're you idiots doin' up there? Don't fuckin' play if you can't stand to lose!"

Mickey's terrified eyeballs rolled back in his head, connecting with Raphael's own wild gaze. The turtle considered a moment before leaning in even closer; close enough to smell Mickey's sweat.

"It's up to you whether you see 'em tomorrow or not, pal."

Mickey swallowed, trembled and opened his mouth. At first it was just a croak, thin and crackling, but then he swallowed again and, never taking his bulging eyes from Raphael's inhuman face, he shouted to the room below:

"S'cool, man, Louis just kicked my ass. The old la-lady'll kill me."

A second later, Raphael's elbow connected with his temple, and Mickey was out of the game.

**-------**

José would not go near her.

He would not even look at her.

He sat near the door, playing Solitaire with a grubby deck of cards, chain-smoking relentlessly. Her throat constricted at the smell of the nicotine, the bald need for it making her a little dizzy. It set her on edge, however, and an edge was what she needed right now.

She coughed and shifted on the ground, moving one leg around in front of her. The smack dulled the pain. She knew it was there, but couldn't respond to it. She needed that, too.

"Give us a cigarette," she drawled, drawing one knee up to her chest. The corner of José's eye flickered, but other than that, he gave no indication that he'd heard her.

"Come on, honey," she continued, before coughing again and pushing back her long hair. The palm of her hand brushed over the small patch of short, soft spikes on one side of her forehead. They couldn't have thought to cut from the back, of course… "Don't a dyin' girl get a last request?"

He froze in the action of laying a card down on the table; not long, but just long enough for her to catch it.

"It ain't much to ask, José," she persisted, gazing at him steadily from the floor. He was short and stocky, this guy. Kinda like Raphael, except not, cos no one was like Raphael. Latino, with a goatee and hair that fell into his eyes. He wore a grimy singlet and ragged blue jeans, and his arms were covered in blue jailhouse tattoos. There was one, on the back of his neck, of hands pressed together in prayer. "If you're gonna act as God, José…"

His hand had been resting on the table, but now the fingers of it curled inwards, tightening into a fist. She could see the current of tension that ran up it, all the way up his arm and over his neck, finally clenching in his jaw.

"It ain't personal," he muttered.

A smile flickered across her mouth, and her eyes rolled back to the ceiling, running along a length of black, coiled wiring. "It never is." Her gaze flickered back down to José. "You got a sister, José?"

José's jaw tensed. "Don't be callin' me that."

"What, your name? Why not, José?"

He did not respond.

"My name's Amber," she continued conversationally. "Figure if you're gonna kill me, you might as well know my name. Dunno if that's important or not, but it's gotta make a better story, right, the day you dusted Nightwatcher's ho. Right, José?"

"Shut up." José's voice was low, a growl. She chuckled.

"I'm gonna die, José. Surely if you're not gonna let me say goodbye to my mom and my dad and my ass-kickin' boyfriend, I at least get a few last words, huh? I mean, what if it were your sister here, baby?"

He flung himself across the room at her, his words a strangled whimper-cry. "_Shuttup!__"_

As his hands closed around her neck, she moved, faster than she thought she could with this much junk in her system.

The impact against his arm startled him so that he stopped. He looked down in mild surprise at where her fisted hand rested against his bicep, his brows furrowing in puzzlement. She could see that he was trying to figure out – _what__'__s she playing at? Was that a punch? She think that gonna hurt me? _– and, smiling, she released her hand and let it drop back down, limp, by her side.

That's when he saw the butt of the syringe, its needle embedded in his arm.

She'd never seen a dark-skinned guy go so pale before.

He rose slowly to his feet and staggered backwards, a funny, high-pitched whine coming from his throat. The fingertips of his other hand hovered in the air, made as if to grab the syringe, and then pulled back again. He seemed afraid to touch it. She watched him quietly, her eyes wide as she slumped in the dirty corner in a sticky, damp mess of her own blood and sweat, fascinated at the sight of his hand trembling, inches away from the barrel of the syringe, and at the sound of the strange, strangled whine he emitted.

"Wh – wh – what was in th-that?" he managed to gasp finally, his eyes still fixed in wide horror on his arm and the unnatural device that seemed to grow out of it, like some especially bizarre tumor.

"Blood," she said quietly. He finally looked at her, his face collapsing in numb, gasping terror. She met his gaze calmly. "My blood."

**-------**

He slipped out into the hallway. He had to move fast, now. No way Mickey's act would be convincing enough to last. They'd shrug it off for a moment or two, but any second now they'd be rethinking it, remembering the tremor in his voice, the pause and the clatter that had come before it.

He still didn't know where Amber was, but he knew that she was alive.

The knowledge did not bring him relief, but rather increased his urgency, the need to find her. He was not too late. He could save her. He could stop them from doing whatever it was they had planned.

There was no strategy here. There was a plan, certainly, but no strategy. Just who was he dealing with? Whoever it was, they were relying on him being as brute, as simple and as crude as they themselves were.

He slipped down the stairs to the floor below, feeling a tightening across his chest as he drew closer to his ultimate goal; a fierce and keen urge now that he was so near. Soon, soon, he would lay hands upon them. Soon he would feel their bones break beneath his blows, hear the soft _whump_ of flesh crumpling under his attack. _No one_ did this to his friends. No one.

When he reached the fifth floor, he moved through the darkness swiftly. He saw in it now as easily as if it were starkly illuminated, and what he didn't see, he could sense, its presence looming out of the shadows as palpably as breath against his neck. As he edged closer towards the apartments where the last of the enemies waited for him, raised voices broke the silence, and he froze, listening intently.

"Fuck ya, Rex, you ain't got nothin' over me! Ya ain't got nothin' over any of us!"

"If it weren't for me, you bums wouldn't even be here! Which one of you losers woulda had the foresight to put this operation together? Huh?"

"Let's get this straight, Rex. We're here as a team for one purpose only: to bring down the Nightwatcher, pay him back for all the wrong he done us, but that's it – "

"Who brought ya all together then, Tommy? Was me, that's who. Without me, you'd all just be sulkin' in the gutter talkin' big about how you'll get even one day while snatchin' purses and holdin' up convenience stores."

"Hey man, just cos it's your idea don't make you top dog. Ever since you brought us here, you've been actin' like you think you're king of the mountain or somethin'. I'm getting fuckin' sick of it, Rex, we all are. You gotta step back, man."

"Or what, Tommy?"

There was a pause. Raphael could not tell if it was one of apprehension, or a moment where the two battlers were locked in each others' eyes. After a moment, he heard Tommy snort a little.

"Or otherwise, I'll take you down, Rex. We got no ties, you and me. We got nothin'."

That explained why none of these guys had markers that connected them. Just a group of punks he'd squished who'd decided to get even. No big time crims, no organised mob. Just a bunch of punks.

And the only thing binding them together was him.

He heard the unmistakable sound of guns being cocked, and a grim voice said, "I'd think real long and hard about this, Tommy."

"I would, too, Rex."

"You guys needed me to keep control. You woulda killed that bitch already if I hadn't stopped ya. No one's tryin' to muscle you about, but someone had to keep their head. How about you put the gun down?"

"How about you first?"

There was another silence, and Raphael crouched in the hall, still and hard as marble, almost as if waiting for their words to come drifting down the hallway so that he could pounce on them. Maybe they'd take each other out. Save him the trouble. Deny him the fun.

"Yo, man." It was a new voice now; a lighter, huskier voice, tinged with nervousness. "Come on, guys, ease up. Take it easy now. Save the 'munition for the Nightwatcher, hey? No sense in us all goin' off mad and shootin' at each other. Let it go."

Another new voice piped up to join that one, a deep baritone that was deceptively gentle and almost nonchalant.

"He's right. Both ya put the guns down and stay cool. No reason we can't sort this out like gentlemen."

Yet another pause, one in which the dark silence of the tenement seemed to buzz, and then there was a metallic clatter as Rex and Tommy took their fingers from the triggers, placing the guns down on some sort of wooden surface.

The released tension flowed down the hallway like a breeze, and Raphael unexpectedly let out a breath.

Lowered words were now exchanged, too quiet for him to catch. He began to ease forward again… when from out of that apartment, two figures emerged, one storming ahead and the other struggling to keep up.

"I don't take orders from no one," the agitated one growled, "Rex's in for a whole world of pain when we done here,"

"I dunno, Tommy, I think this all getting' outta hand," the other said, struggling to keep his voice low. "Feelin' real bad 'bout what we're doin' to that kid. Shit, man, she don't look much older than my sister's kid. Shouldn'ta beat her like that. Shouldn'ta took her. Man, I ain't never killed no one before."

Tommy drew to a stop, staring blankly ahead into the darkness. "Don't think about it. Ain't our fault. Nightwatcher should know better. He brought this on her. It's his deed."

The words hit Raphael with the force of a freight train, hard enough that his knees buckled. Tommy suddenly twitched, his faraway look replaced by something keener. Inexplicably, he'd sensed Raphael's presence.

It brought him back to himself. Carefully, he reached into his belt as Tommy held up a hand to his companion, indicating for silence. Raphael had brought the _manriki_ with him. The Nightwatcher's weapon. In these sorts of situations, it was ideal.

The iron ball slammed into Tommy's forehead, catapulting him backwards. He didn't make a sound, but his companion, the edgier younger guy, needed only the time it took for Raphael to haul the weighted chain back to him before he reacted. He spun around on his heels so fast he tripped, stumbling over his own feet, but it only served to propel him further back down the hall, towards the door he'd emerged from.

"He's here!" he shrieked, "Nightwatcher's here! He's here, damn it!"

Still concealed by the shadows, Raphael's grip on the _manriki_ clenched, and he was flooded with the thrill of anticipation.

**------**

When the hail-peal of bullets racketed through the old tenement, a distant barrage of thunder that rumbled the crumbling walls, Amber started, and then grinned at José, who had finally grabbed the syringe barrel.

"I reckon my ass-kickin' boyfriend might be here," she sneered.


	4. Chapter 4

_My thanks again to the lovely Deirdre for her fabulous beta-reading skills. kisses Especially at this time._

_---_

**FOUR**

It was like the skies had opened up and rained down lightning.

The six mugs that were left had responded quickly to their compatriot's alert, stepping out of the apartment to open fire into the darkness, the charge of their weapons crackling brightly around them. The noise was shattering.

Above them, cloaked in shadow as they hailed bullets down the hallway, Raphael eased himself carefully across the ceiling. Seven left.

Bring it on.

He moved swiftly, any sound he made disguised by the roar of gunfire, until he was past the lot of them and was able to drop down. A guy at the rear of the group yelped when the shuriken hit his wrist, incapacitating his trigger hand, but his accomplices couldn't hear him. Two quick snap kicks laid him down, and then before him, the biggest of the lot held up his hand, urging them to hold their fire. Barely thirty seconds had passed since they began.

The gunfire came to an abrupt stop, the silence so sudden it rang. The hallway was dark once again, clouds of dust rising into the air, and the goons edged forward slowly, still peering into the darkness, trying to ascertain if any of their barrage had hit their intended target.

Behind them, unnoticed, Raphael grinned and unslung the manriki.

The Big Guy, at the front, suddenly turned to his friends with a scowl, and caught sight of the weapon as it hurtled towards him. Reflexively, he shot up a muscular arm, and the weapon glanced off it, causing him to yell in vicious pain. As the others all turned as one, he went stumbling, gripping his wounded arm as Raphael sprung.

He came silently out of the shadows, leaping high into the air, both sai drawn. First priority was weapons disarming. Then he could really cause them some pain.

The barrel of one weapon was caught in the prongs of his sai as it turned towards him, and then it was flicked away. A powerful kick broke the elbow of a trigger arm, and he ducked past the wounded guy as another weapon was levelled, its sudden burst of fire catching the man groaning and hugging his arm tight against his body. As the shooter paused, dismayed by the fact that he'd taken out one of his own, a broken cry of "Doug!" issuing from his mouth, Raphael grabbed his arm and twisted, dislocating the shoulder. Doug's mourner let out a scream that rent the night.

Raphael was hardly finished.

He vaguely recognised faces as they rose before him; kids and men he'd taken down over the last eight months or so. He couldn't remember where he'd seen them, what crimes they'd committed, or how badly he'd dealt with them. Just that he'd encountered them before.

As his foot connected with the sternum of one, he wondered how many were supporting a wife and kids somewhere in the city, like Mickey. A swift gut punch followed by a brutal uppercut to another, and he considered what sort of desperate cycle they might be trapped in. One guy screamed loudly in agony, another managed barely a whimper, and Raphael remembered Amber, trapped somewhere by these thugs, and the violence they'd enacted on her to wreak vengeance on him.

His savagery increased.

He came back to himself an indeterminate amount of time later, to find one guy in his grip, his filthy shirt bunched up in Raphael's fist, his face swollen and bloodied under the assault that had been levelled on him. He felt giddy, momentarily, the heat of his rage striking through him like a punch. He could see, in the guy's slackly parted lips, a tooth swimming in the blood bubbling up out of his mouth, and Raphael abruptly dropped him to the floorboards.

He heard a hissing moan and the shifting of a limp body against the filthy ground. He whipped around, hauling the mug upwards by the hair. The mug was already in too much pain to whimper; he just squeezed his eyes shut tight as his face contorted in an agonised grimace.

"Where is she?" Raphael hissed into the thug's face. The guy twitched, his mouth working frantically. Raphael shook him viciously. "Tell me. Now."

The mug's lips continued to flicker, and Raphael leaned closer as he finally got them together, ready to hear what he had to say.

A second later, his vision was obscured by a mouthful of spit and blood. Snarling, he wiped his face and slammed the mug up against a wall, restraining himself from a blow that would surely render the guy insensible and incapable of answering.

"Tell me where she is!" he snarled, and the guy made a sharp, high-pitched whistling sound that he belatedly realised was laughter.

"Fuck you, man," the mug whined.

"I'll kill you," Raphael promised him in a low growl, and the mug's laughter increased.

"Then you'll have to kill me. Fuck you, man. Kill me then. Go on. Kill me."

Raphael's vision blurred again, this time due to the savage bolt of pure fury that ripped through his head. He was barely aware of flinging the mug down to the floorboards, throwing himself down on top of him and raising his sai, readying himself for a blow of such power that the prongs' blunt tips would penetrate the mug's throat like a knife through butter.

There was the unmistakeable creak of floorboards above their heads.

He stopped, whirling around. His skin felt hot and wet, his breath raspy in his throat, his vision spotted and blurred. He shook his head rapidly, realized that there were only four goons crumpled up in the darkness around him, and that three were missing.

With a roar of pure rage, he hurtled down the hallway toward the stairs.

**------**

When the door lock was blasted in, Amber threw herself into the furthermost corner and rolled up into a ball, her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around them and her head tucked down.

"Get the bitch," she heard the Big Guy hiss, and a second later hands were laid upon her. She kicked out, her booted feet connecting with a hipbone hard enough that her captor yelped, before shaking her viciously and throwing her to one side. She stumbled, but kept her balance, leaning up against the wall. The Big Guy sneered at her, and then kicked the table savagely across the room, before rounding on José.

"What the fuck's goin' on in here? Why didn't you open the door when I knocked?"

"She – she – she – poisoned me – stuck me with somethin' – dunno – she's jammed somethin' into me, she's poisoned me, poisoned, poisoned!" José's voice pitched higher in hysteria as he began blabbering, and The Big Guy took a step forward and rammed the butt of his gun against José's chin, knocking him out.

"That's my brother, man," one of the others barked darkly, and Rex rounded on him, gun aimed.

"Save it for the Nightwatcher," he snarled back.

"What the fuck is that upstairs, man, is that the Nightwatcher?" the other guy asked. "What the fuck have you got us into, Rex, what the fuck?"

"SHUT UP!" Rex roared, pulling himself up to his full height. Unexpectedly, Amber felt a wave of hysteria rise up in her, the urge to laugh burbling in her throat. She swallowed hard around it. The Big Guy and the other one braced themselves in front of the door, guns cocked and aimed.

José's brother levelled his eyes on Amber, and then narrowed them calculatingly. "We gotta kill her. Kill her now. " Amber felt her guts tip upside down as the barrel of his automatic met her eye to eye, but a second later The Big Guy had knocked it away with one meaty arm, barely stepping out of position.

"You fuckin' crazy?" he screeched. "She's our chip! You seen that thing up there?"

"What you done to my brother, bitch?" José's brother remained expressionless, his eyes glittering in the pale neon of the lone lightbulb overhead.

"That don't matter right now, get into position!" The Big Guy barked, swivelling his head away from the door and trying to catch his eye, but José's brother didn't move.

"We oughta just kill her, Rex," he said flatly. "We all dead anyway. Might as well get one in."

"I ain't dead!" Rex roared, moving away from the doorway completely, stepping up to tower over José's brother as the other guy turned fearfully to watch the infuriated exchange, the gun jerking in his shaking hands. Amber chewed on a nail and watched them all dispassionately. "Nightwatcher totalled my van, got me fired from the only legit job I had in ten years and sent my son down. _I__'__m not leaving here without a piece of him_!"

"Ooof!"

Amber, José's brother and Rex turned to see the remaining fellow lying motionless on the ground. Even as the three of them turned to the gaping black jaw of the doorway, a silent barrage of fury exploded through it.

Amber threw herself back up against the wall, hit the table and dropped to her knees, rolling beneath it, eyes wide and jaw slack as she watched Raphael attack.

She'd never seen him fight before. Sure, she knew he could. But until now, she'd never seen it. She knew that he was strong, that he was fit, that he was fast. Even still, she could not quite comprehend the speed with which he now moved, disarming them of their weapons, throwing the guns far from where they could retrieve them, turning back to block punches and kicks before laying in with his own.

She crouched beneath the table on all fours, her body numb and burning, watching him with round, swollen eyes. She watched and devoured his movements and realised after a second that he was holding back, that he was allowing them to stay up and fight back, that he was easily, almost languidly dragging the battle out. She wondered why.

As the seconds ticked by and the other two grew weaker, becoming slower and more fatigued in their movements, alternatively huffing and crying out in agony, she understood.

When Rex made a desperate leap for her where she huddled under the table, she was not altogether surprised. His nose had been broken again, blood pouring from it in two long rivulets down around his mouth and chin. Raphael had the other guy by one arm, twisting it at an unnatural angle so that the guy's unearthly howls added a macabre soundtrack to the Armageddon of the dirty little low-lit room. And then Rex was barrelling into the table, knocking it backwards, one bloody fist around her neck, the other pressed limply and flapping against his side. With a bone-tearing crack, Raphael spun the other guy away and finished him off with a powerful double round house kick before turning, snarling, to find Rex.

"I'll kill her," Rex spat around a mouthful of blood, his voice stammering. "I'll snap her neck like a fu-fucking twig, you sonuvabitch!"

Raphael eased himself into a squat, still with that awful, vicious snarl on his mouth. His eyes so narrow that they were barely white slits in the mottled grey-green of his face, his red eye-mask stained darker in places from the blood of those he'd lain down earlier. Amber stared at him from a gaze that was beginning to speck and smart white from the pressure of Rex's hand around her throat, her breath coming in hard, painful gasps. All she could think was: 'My mother will never know how I died,' and then Rex was roaring, and she felt her larynx begin to collapse under the pressure of his crushing grip just as Raphael growled, actually _growled_, and flipped both sai out of his belt, leaping across the space separating them.

The world blurred, then went white, furious and burning at the corners.

**-------**

Beside Rex's prone, silent body, Raphael panted, feeling himself slowly return, the boiling roar in his body replaced with a buzzing numbness. He wiped his sai off on the man's dark shirt, replaced them in his belt, and ran both hands back over his face, feeling the heat of the wetness that covered him.

Amber sat up abruptly and vomited, nothing but a quantity of spit and bile.

He stared at her dispassionately. She always did have a weak stomach.

She looked about blankly for a moment, the bare bulb overhead swinging and throwing its light around the dingy room in a bright arc, before her eyes flickered over Rex. She studied him for only a few seconds, and then swivelled her neck around, the bruises on it already darkening, and brought up her gaze to meet Raphael's. They stared at each other for a long, surreal moment, and then she raised an eyebrow.

"Hey," she said.

"Yeah. Hey," he replied.

She shifted with a wince as he got to his feet, his muscles beginning to twitch as the adrenalin slowly dissipated, and leant over to offer her a hand.

She took it, and he hauled her to her feet. She was so light, like a child, like a doll. He pulled her up too fast, and she stumbled forward. He caught her by the hips and steadied her, something new and hot beginning to burble in his belly as he felt the bones of her pelvis against his thumbs.

"Do ya need a hospital?" he queried.

She took a step back and let her head loll, tested her weight. "I don't think so. It's hard to breathe, though."

His hands ran up her hips to her ribcage, catching on the fabric of her dress so that it lifted a few inches. "How hard?"

"It hurts."

"Like you could scream each breath hurts, or just unpleasant this is kinda annoyin' hurts?"

She took a few deep breaths in, wincing with each one. He studied her face as she did so, at the way her freckles clustered together in the middle of her forehead, how the darkness of the bruises on her cheekbone made the paleness of her skin all the more pronounced.

"Just really unpleasant," she decided, and he pressed gently against her ribcage. She twitched and scowled, but didn't yelp, and he shrugged.

"Don't think you got cracked ribs. Probably just bruised. I should take you to an emergency room anyhow."

Amber stepped over Rex's body and moved to the front corner of the room where José had tossed her backpack. Fumbling inside it, she found her pack of cigarettes and tapped one out, flicking the lighter out of the pack and lighting up. Taking in a long, heavenly draw of nicotine, she waved Raphael's statement off. "Naw. I'm ok. Appreciate it if you take me home, though." She'd had to move away from him. His hands on her had seemed to burn, had set her sensitised skin tingling. It made it even harder to breathe.

Raphael turned to watch her, still feeling curiously disconnected from his body, slightly out of it somehow. He cocked his head to the side and watched as she slung the knapsack onto her back, lifted the cigarette again to her mouth and tossed her long hair over her shoulder. He noted the way strands of it caught on her arm and then slid off, and the way the hem of her skirt skimmed the tops of her thighs, poking out from it; bony, bruised and pale. Quite unexpectedly, he felt his tail stir and drop, and he turned away in alarm.

A moment later, there was a shuffling sound of fabric shifting and scratching. He turned back around to see Amber fumbling through the clothes of the men lying strewn about them. Reaching into the jeans pocket of one, a guy with curly dark hair wearing a bandana, she withdrew his wallet and removed a few crumpled bills, jamming them into her knapsack. Then she tossed the wallet back down on his head before moving to the next body.

"What are you doing?" he questioned her distantly, knowing what he was seeing seemed sick and wrong, but somehow not moved to do anything about it.

She shrugged. "Taking their money. After all this shit, I figure they owe me. Seems fair, anyhow."

He shook his head to clear it, frowning. His body was coming alive now, and he was aware of parts that ached or were coiled too tight. All of a sudden, he felt flooded with pins and needles, as the whole awful reality of the night fought its way back into his memory in brief, violent gasps. He thought he should stop her, but some part of him was so desperately relieved to see her walking around, as cool and savage as before, that he couldn't.

She turned to look at him, one strap fallen and baring a freckled shoulder, the funny little stubbly spot on the right side of her forehead where they'd loped off a lock of her hair, her eyes blue and bright beneath the stark globe. He tightened his fists and resisted the urge to throw himself across the room at her.

"Take me home," she said.

**-------**

In the distance, dawn was beginning to crack over the horizon, a bright red spark bleeding into the periwinkle blue of the night sky. He gently eased her into the window of her squat, and she set a shaky boot on the floorboards, but did not take her hands from his shoulders, obliging him to step in after her.

"Have a coffee," she commanded, and he thought of Donatello, who would be waking soon and would be annoyed to find he was not there, not even asleep in his room. But then Amber was leaning against the wall and unlacing her boots, one knee bent and crossed over the other. The damn strap had fallen off her shoulder again, and her skirt had hitched up, so he sat down on the lumpy mattress and watched her silently.

If he went home now, he might have to lie about all that had happened tonight. Lie about how close he had come to being shot to pieces; how close Amber had come to dying. Lie about an abandoned tenement lying scattered with the bodies of men, some just barely alive and some not so lucky.

Amber brought the coffee over, instant, black and sweet, in two chipped mugs. He took the one she offered, and she placed hers on the floor beside the mattress and slowly, painfully eased herself into a sitting position next to him. The early morning air between them, already growing rapidly humid, was heavy and moist.

He took a sip of the awful coffee and squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly remembering her bending over their bodies, reaching into their pockets and taking their cash.

"Amber – when – when they took you, did – did they – " he couldn't get the words out, it was too awful a thing to think of.

She turned and looked him directly in the eye, holding his gaze. "No," she said with finality.

He waited for relief to flood him, but it didn't. There was something about it that continued to bother him. "Really?"

"Yes. Really. Believe me, Raphael. They didn't."

He released a gust of breath, placed his palms forward on the mattress and bowed his head. Thank God.

"I can't see you anymore." He hadn't realised he was going to say the words until they were out of his mouth, and he felt himself grow cold and numb as the reality of it hit him. She chuckled.

"I knew you were going to say that." She sounded as though she were trying to be dispassionate, but then she leaned over and grabbed a bottle of gin standing next to the stool by the mattress, hauling it over for a heavy gulp.

The air was so heavy it was getting difficult to breathe. He gasped, lifted a hand to his face, and did not look at her as she stared at him, her bruised eyes round and intent.

"I can't," he whispered.

"No, you can't," she said agreeably, and it stung, sharp, like a blade. "Not on the bike. Not in the suit. Not as the Nightwatcher. We'll just have to go back to the way it was before all that."

"Amber," he murmured and turned to look at her. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he didn't know what to say. He couldn't argue with the logic of that.

Couldn't, or wouldn't.

He should get up, right then, and go. Just being near her endangered her, that much was certain, but there were plenty of other reasons to go. If he had Donatello's practicality, or Michelangelo's shamelessness or Leonardo's bravery, he could recite them all for her now, one by one.

She smelt of blood and sweat and something else, something he recognised intuitively, although he had never had much experience with it. Something he'd smelt on April occasionally when she was around Casey. It unnerved him and simultaneously made it harder to convince himself to go.

It flooded him in a rush, the wrongness of it all. _She__'__s just been kidnapped and beaten, she almost died_, the thought went around in his head. And then, somehow more furious, the retort from something savage and brutal deep down in his core: _And I saved her. I saved her. I took her back_.

Disturbed and edgy at the vicious sense of ownership that had rushed through him, he set the coffee mug back on the floor so sharply some of the black liquid spilled over the rim, darkening the dusty floorboards. He edged backwards.

"I better go." He'd almost turned when her fingers encircled his wrist as far as they would go, light as a butterfly.

"Don't go."

He could've shaken her grip off like rain and kept on going. It was her voice, the rawness of it, the stark need she revealed at that moment that froze him where he was, up on one knee, poised for flight on the dingy, lumpy mattress in that squalid little room.

"Why – why not?" He did not recognise his own voice, so raspy and sharp it sounded.

Her grip tightened; it was little more than a caress.

"Because I want you."

She said it firmly, without hesitation, though her voice was low. Numbness flooded through him, dull and warm, and through its hum he was aware of turning his head to look at her. She shrugged again, her old standby. "I want you to stay."

The room was growing steadily lighter as the sun continued to rise beyond the window, and he could see how red her eyes were, how pronounced the bruises and swelling. His eyes ran down her face and over her breasts, where her tiny nipples pressed hard against the fabric of her dress, and then lower to where the scarred skin of her inner elbows looked pearly, as though it might peel easily away.

He remembered the feel of his hands on her hips, how his fingertips had met around her back, how tiny and frail she felt in his grip. He could hurt her. His eyes lifted to her face again, where she locked her blue gaze with his. Her lower lip was slack and hanging slightly open, and he recalled the brightness of her smile when she was happy, when she laughed. She was so human.

"I –" he was ashamed of the way his voice caught, "I don't need your pity."

She sat forward on her knees then, eyes flashing and pale skin flushing red. "Pity? You think this is – Jesus Christ. I'm still alive. I can still want things for myself!"

_Get up and leave_. The command came as though from a distance, and his body did not obey. He bowed his head, staring at the lumpy, threadbare wool of the blanket between his knees.

"It would never work." His voice was so low he barely heard it, but she came closer, once again shrugging.

"Why does it have to?" She caught up the edges of her dress, a grimace of pain quick-contorting her face, and pulled it up and over her head. "Why should that stop us?"

Unable to resist, he looked over at her. Although naked, she seemed frailer and more grotesque than ever, the bones of her ribs protruding through her flesh, her stomach caved inwards and the tiny curve of her breasts barely thin half moons on her chest. The whole of it was covered in a vivid pattern of bruises and scars, yet somehow she was also lovely. The sight of her awoke something hungry and furious in him. Like a taper to a flame, it ignited and rushed through his body, and he knew there was no going back.

He felt himself shift, turn onto his knees and move towards her over the mattress, and she came forward to welcome him.

**End**


End file.
